A Family Supper' Epilogue  Kazuo Ishiguro
by northlands.grrrl
Summary: The family supper has just ended, and the man's extremely formidable and depressed father served him and his sister fish. However, the question we are left inquiring is: 'What kind of fish'
1. CHAPTER 1 'Tea Time'

Epilogue

The tea tastes bland, and so does the conversation.

'_So – are you settled then – for the retirement?'_ I ask after a while, once again awkwardly breaking the deafening silence with some facile palaver.

'_Yes –'_ he hesitates, my father never hesitates. _'I suppose things are – taken care of.'_ My father solemnly replies, yet he seems more invigorated than usual.

When I glance at my father through my eyelashes to scrutinize him – an arduous act performed with many years of experience, because my father, as one may have guess, is a very pragmatic, intimidating and parochial man – I recognize that there is indeed a certain glow surrounding him. The type of malevolent glow accompanied with the grin of mischief that one incarnates after one gets the cake and eats it too.

On closer inspection, there is something different about him, something poignant yet inexplicably difficult to depict. To be more precise, one might say that he resembles a walking, talking paradox. Completely satisfied yet dissatisfied. Seduced by a thought, yet utterly repulsed. And, for a mere second – about the time it takes to blink an eye – it looks like the devil himself is sitting in our living room. The devil in disguise, however, disguised as my father. – And this, this mere inexplicable yet heart wrenching moment of doubt becomes my epiphany. Considering, it is when I realize that something **infernally** **abhorrent** is going to occur.


	2. CHAPTER 2 'Fire'

Five hours later…

**Fire.** It feels like a fire. Burning its way through every limb in my body and also shattering all my hopes, dreams, and internal organs. I scream, and scream, and scream of agony. Yet, no one comes to rescue me. Seconds, minutes, hours, pass whilst I solely scream. From the top of my lungs, until my throat is soar; and until my voice sounds hoarse. I scream until I start coughing up thick scarlet lumps of blood, and until I cannot scream no more.

For, it feels like I have swallowed sharp razor blades. Razor blades that are slowly moving around the raw inside of me gradually cutting me up like ham from inside, and there is absolutely nothing I can do about it. I feel as helpless as the women I see selling their bodies every day at the corner of Hollywood Boulevard. These girls succumb in vice every day solely to survive… One might even say that they have sold their souls to the devil, and so did I when I agreed to come here to visit my estranged vainglorious father.

I cry, and I cry, and I cry. Until my eyes are soar. I cry until my raucous sobs scarcely can be heard, and until my tear canals have dried out. For, I cry until I cannot cry no more. However, who is he anyway, my father that is. Ready to commit sacrilege to preserve his own pride – that is ironically enough one of the seven deadly sins – by parading through the gates of ignominy. For, what pride there is in the encumbrance of being found in one's own bodily fluids? One's own tears of agony, blood of regret, vomit of repulsion, and excrements of fear.

The unendurable fire of agony is still burning but I am not. Because there is nothing left to do. There are no screams left to be ejaculated. Nor, any tears left to be cried, and I will surely not give him the pleasure in hearing me feeling badly for myself. For, I am not his indulgent harlot. He might hold me accountable for breaking up our family, but in my eyes we are both equally guilty. Since, he made it impossible for me to stay. However, I suppose, he wins as always. Since, now we will all be together. **Forever.**

However, methinks this final act of nihilism proves – looking at the bright side of this bleak and obscene situation – that my father did indeed know that I am my mother's son. For, how else would he have known that I, alike my mother, would unambiguously walk into the trap of prejudice? Too afraid of social anomie, – because, surely loneliness one can handle, but being alienated? Methinks not – and too eager to fit in and not upset. So eager that one's own common sense is left behind in the never ending race for acceptance.

However, thinking about it, I ate that piece of unknown fish without further ado. Now, does that make me naïve or solely suicidal? Because, I cannot – considering the Watanabe circumstances – with a liberated conscience say that I was not subconsciously aware of what my father was going to do. Or maybe, I did not consciously want to believe that my own father was capable of committing such an atrocity. However, why would any child want to believe that its own father is a conceited Machiavellian monster?


	3. CHAPTER 3 'Forever'

Whether or not I am ready, the decision has already been made for me. I am going to die. Cease to exist, however, not in a distant metaphorical future, but within the hour. I feel it coming. My throat feels thick, and I am having a hard time to breathe since it feels like I am being asphyxiated. No. Exasperated. I feel exasperated, and for a mere second I feel relief. Relieved to see her and tell her that I am sorry. For, I am – sorry. Moreover, I am relieved that worries are beyond me, no, past me – **Forever**.

_'Forever'_ I chuckle. However, a spectator might describe this alleged "chuckle" as something between a cough and a hoarse scream.

My father used to tell me never to use the word 'forever'. For, _'How many moments do literally last forever, you foolish boy?'_ He always inquired when striking me several times around my head… Well, father, this moment will – thanks to you – last forever.

As I feel the last burning breath of earthly air forsaking my brittle lungs. I recognize that I have come to terms with my faith. This is it, the end of an era – the end of my life, and I am ready for it. Alas, I feel my feet arise and I firmly walk the familiar path of innocence into eternity. The path walked twice in life: at birth and at death and alike birth we depart this earth as lonely as we arrived… I feel it all, a soft stroke upon my neck, someone fiddling with my hair, and a delicate kiss upon my lips. That was it, was it not? The kiss of death?

For, I am ready to greet death as an old friend now. I am ready to greet her.

_'Hello mother, for I have missed you so dearly.'_ I imperceptibly whisper as my heart plays the last note of the miserable sonata of my life.


	4. CHAPTER 4 'Fugu'

"_**There is neither happiness nor misery in the world; there is only the comparison of one state to another, nothing more. He who has felt the deepest grief is best able to experience supreme happiness. We must have felt what it is to die, that we may appreciate the enjoyments of life."**_**–Alexandre Dumas.**

'_Sir?'_ the waitress reluctantly inquires whilst ravenously chewing on a piece of pink chewing gum. _'Sir, we don't need you to keep our seats warm, and I don't know how things work wherever you're from, but here in Cali no order is equivalent to no seat. So if you're not gonna order, I suggest–'_

'_I'll have a cup of coffee, black, with plenty of sugar – Please.'_ I abruptly answer with a humble smirk whilst cutting the waitress off in the middle of her sentence. She nods lightly and scribbles some words on a piece of yellow paper. Yet, she does not seem bothered. She seems quite satisfied – now that she does not have to tend to me anymore. Whilst the waitress walks away to place my order I allow myself to succumb once again in profound contemplation of that day four years ago. The day that inevitably came to define the essence of who I am, and also became the inexhaustible inspiration for my career as a successful published author.

The fish Fugu now carries a new significance to me. It is, alike a scar, a constant reminder of that I survived. Even though my father did not, nor did my mother or my sister. Moreover, I was lost – thinking that my life lacked significance and purpose – until that day, and I was in for a rude awakening. Since, – at the risk of sounding trite by using a hackneyed platitude – sometimes one does not fully comprehend nor recognize what one has until it is all taken away from one, and it was all taken away from me. For, my father tried to deprive me of my greatest gift. Something given to all, yet appreciated by few: the gift of life.

Furthermore, whenever I hear the word _'_Fugu' it reminds me of the essence of who I am: a survivor. And therefore, if anyone ever asks me: _'What dying feels like?'_ I will stare him steadily in his eyes and say that: _'It feels like surviving'_.


End file.
